An Act of Will
by kimbari
Summary: Laura Roslin-William Adama-sex PWP. It's what I do. ; I don't know how they ended up in bed, I just started writing at that point and this is what came out. Definitely not one for or about the kiddies...


An Act of Will

by kimbari

Pairing: Roslin/Adama

Rating: Very Strong R...

Disclaimer: Please.

_A/N: It's mondavis's fault. More than anything else, her fics convinced me of the Laura/Adama chemistry or, more accurately, the kind of fun to be had _writing_ Laura/Adama fics. This fic has taken more turns than a side street in LA. It is what it is, totally PWP, based on absolutely nothing at all except the characters' chemistry and the author's knowledge that middle-aged people do not fuck the way young people do… which is not necessarily a bad thing. _;)

* * *

Like water flowing in a riverbed… no, something more mundane… Rain in a gutter, maybe. The sensation was moving, flowing, pleasure headed out to a sea of oblivion, sensory obliteration except… Laura gasped at the sensation as his tongue tasted that most secret part of her, licked, sucked, pulled her toward… toward… A destination that receded the closer she got to it. She stifled a moan. She didn't want to make a sound that might be misconstrued. She would never fake it, never. She'd promised herself after being caught out once, a long long time ago. And it wasn't happening. She didn't want him to stop trying, she wanted it, wanted him – she just didn't seem to know _how_ anymore…

Adama sensed her resignation and retreated, planting kisses on the insides of her thighs, tasting her one last time before he raised his head up. There wasn't much he enjoyed more than eating out a woman, and this woman was every bit as delectable as he'd imagined she'd be, salty and tangy and the soft scent of her sweat made his blood burn in his veins. He could spend hours with his head between her legs but not without reward. Some relay, somewhere, wasn't clicking over.

"Not doing it for you?" he asked, his dark gaze piercing the air, the distance between her face and her pubis. There was irony in his tone, and a bit of amusement. She thought this surprising. Any other man would be huffy.

She sighed. "I'm sorry…" She relaxed against the pillow, stared up at the ceiling. "It's not you, it's me."

"You know," he said conversationally. "That's got to be number one on the list of things a man doesn't want to hear in bed."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"And that's number two." He sat up and she could see that he had quite the erection. Her body reacted the way it always did at sight of a rigid penis. The sensation was familiar, yet muted, like someone speaking on the other side of a wall. Adama caressed her leg, smiling ruefully. Then he lay his head on the pillow beside her, rested his hand on her belly. The gesture comforted her, and she risked a confidence.

"It's menopause," she said. She continued to stare at the ceiling. "Just when I'd gotten really comfortable with my body, my sexuality, everything changed. Nothing works the way it used to…"

"I think she's working just fine," he said, sliding his hand down her belly to cup her vulva. This time she was more aroused than comforted, yet felt a huge absence of lightning, of thunder. Where once had been a pounding heart, was now only a thready pulse. She felt frustrated, and a little bit betrayed, if for no other reason than _he_ deserved better than this.

"I guess I need a different paradigm," she said, turning her head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes held her eyes – those eyes that couldn't make up their mind what color to be. He raised his eyebrows at the thousand cubit word, but held his peace, content to just look into her eyes.

They locked gazes, silently communicating what can only be communicated without words. And after a long moment she murmured, "You should wash your face."

"Nothing wrong with my face," he said. It was her turn to raise eyebrows. Her bodily fluids had dried in smears that bore a strong resemblance to dried egg whites. "There's nothing wrong with my face," he repeated.

She looked again at the ceiling. "As you say," she said.

He reached over and fingered her bangs away from her forehead; his thumb traced the vee of her hairline over and over. She saw the pale underside of his arm, felt the heat of it, sensed the weight of it, and felt her wanting of him wash over her again. Felt that wanting as if twenty years hadn't marched over her body and she was still possessed of that pervasive, baby-making drive. She closed her eyes and accepted his caress, willed herself to feel at least the memory of lust.

His caressing hand circled her face to cup her cheek. He turned her face toward his and kissed her, his lips parting, tongue seeking. There were things she found esthetically displeasing, the flavor of her body on the mouth of a man who was kissing her wasn't one of them. He made a sound, deep in his throat; it echoed her lust memory. Laura was heartened by the fact that he hadn't given up on her, not just yet. She thought of other sensory pleasures – perhaps the side door was the way in.

"I miss baths," she whispered, when he released her mouth. He smiled and his eyes got a faraway look as he remembered, too.

"Trees," he said.

"Rain," she said. "Water that isn't in a container of some kind."

"Small animals," he said, and when she looked at him askance, he said, "The boys had a lot of pets when they were kids, the house was a regular menagerie."

"Because of the animals or the children?" she asked, not quite able to keep the smile out of her tone. He gave her a look.

"Both," he admitted, and they laughed but it was only briefly and then the tension returned. They were lying naked together on a bed, after all. After an interminable moment she said, "Will…"

at the same time he said, "Laura…"

"No one calls me 'Will'," Adama informed her.

"_I_ do," Laura said, in a voice she might use while disciplining a child.

"Won't," he said wryly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm Will and you're 'Won't'."

She chuckled at that, then smiled at him, her compact, closed smile that he suddenly realized wasn't so much withholding as consideration. Her power… her power over him was huge. She could see that it was, but had better manners than to use it against him.

Besides, the want was still there.

"Make love to me, Will," she said softly.

Blandly he said, "Is that an order?"

She suppressed a smile. "It's a request," she said.

"All right," he said, "on one condition."

"Name it," she said.

"You give it back," he said. "With all you've got."

Laura drew a breath. A challenge. She let the breath out in an inaudible sigh. "I'll try."

"Don't try," Adama said, and moved on top of her. "Do it."

"Yes," she said as he entered her. He was big and he filled her, stretched her to the limit, wanted more. He penetrated her slowly, with short, careful strokes that sent him deeper inside her with every breath, every movement, and the pleasure of it, the pleasure made her sing, each moan, each gasp a pure, clear note. And there was so much of him to give her and he whispered, "Spread your legs some more," and she did and he slipped deeper still, creating his space, his own place inside her, and the memory of lust returned. She remembered her promise, to give it back, to give all that she had. So she moved her hips in languid circles that made him moan, and she felt the vibration of his voice in his chest, against her breasts.

It washed over her now, that eager ache, still different from her memory. This was a new thing, _Gods_, he felt so good inside her, so deep the way he filled her up. "Yes," she sighed. _Yes, and yes, and yes…_ He slid his hands beneath her, encircling her in his arms, whispered her name. Yes, it was different, now, this new thing. Hot, intense, funny how the nearness of death drew stark outlines around life. Some things mattered… and some things did not. And right now the only thing that mattered was that she was not alone in her body anymore, but shared it, if only for a moment. Shared in his humanity, shared in his vulnerability.

"William…" She whispered his name and he gave her his mouth and it was a kiss unlike any kiss any one had ever given her. There was no holding back, no reserve, he gave her his body, he offered his soul. He whispered her name in response and their movements became faster, more urgent… closer. "Gods!" she cried out and he slipped his hands between her ass and the mattress and pulled her up, to him, sliding in to the hilt, holding her so tightly she couldn't move and she felt him come inside her at the same time she felt herself come outside him, felt herself disappear into the ether, heard herself scream, heard him cry out, in joy, in triumph.

"There's your paradigm!" he said, and she heard the laughter in his voice and felt the laughter in his body slide into hers and become her own. But she wasn't through coming yet and her cries of pleasure were like music to his heart, to his soul and he pulled his hands from beneath her and took her face in his hands, cupped her skull and watched her as her second orgasm had its way with her. "So big," she whispered at one point, trembling beneath him and he knew she wasn't referring to that part of him that connected them.

She laughed and she wept and he watched her, loved her. Loved her. Her tears slipped down the sides of her face and into her ears. He caught one with his tongue. He kissed her, mouth wide, devouring her. "Yes," she said when he let her breathe again. She relaxed, tasted the skin of his neck as she eased her nails out of the crescent-shaped tracks she'd lain on his back.

"I love you," he breathed.

She pulled back, shocked. "W—" The rest of the letters were stopped by the finger he pressed against her pursed lips, silencing her response, her negation. "Shhh," he said. "You'll ruin the mood."

She smiled, relaxed. Giggled. Good. Panic forestalled. He pulled away from her, out of her. He noted the small sound of disappointment she made. He settled by her side, his hand on her belly again, gently caressing. He wanted more. He would have more, in a bit, when she stopped flying. She smiled at him beatifically as he caressed her. Adama's hand slid up to her left breast and cupped it gently, lightly. Not lightly enough.

Laura felt him stiffen in surprise and her orgasmic euphoria evaporated. She closed her eyes as his fingers probed, pressed deeper into the tissue, discovering her secret. Mapped the borders of the tumor that would kill her. She could almost hear the pieces falling into place for him. She felt the probing stop but he continued to hold her breast in his hand. She continued to stare through closed eyes.

"Is it malignant?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and she heard him make an odd noise, one of protest. It was the only sound he made. He didn't say anything, so she spoke again. "Are you angry?"

"No," he said. "Yes."

"At me?"

"At the cancer." She'd heard that tone before. Tight. Deadly. She feared him in that mood a lot more than she feared the death that awaited her. And that she would never, _ever_ let him know.

"I'm fighting it," she told him. "I'm fighting it as hard as I can."

Adama wouldn't look at her. "Who else knows?"

She sat up and looked down at him. He looked up at her. "Three others," she said. "What difference does it make?" she said.

"I'd like to know who you trusted with this information instead of me," he said.

"You mean besides the doctor?" Laura said. "Until a week ago you and I were adversaries. We had a common purpose, but we weren't exactly friends. I couldn't trust you with the knowledge that I was ill. You might have used it against me…"

"I would _never_ do that," he said, his eyes flashing steel.

"I know that," she said. She lowered her head and her mahogany colored hair fell over her face, obscuring it. "I've known that for a long time…" She fell silent, her face still hidden from him.

"You could have told me a week ago," he said gently.

She threw her head back, uttered a sarcastic chuff of a laugh. "Right," she said. "Of course I'm going to tell you, that I'm dying of cancer, right at the moment I started to want you…"

"What were you afraid of?" he challenged.

"What do you think?" she flashed at him. "I'm sick, I'm a cripple, I'm damaged goods, who would want—"

"Damn it, Laura, give me a little more credit than that!" he said.

She stared at him. "I do." She threw up her hands. "Gods!" she cried. "I'm _tired! _I'm tired of standing when I want to sit, I'm tired of being looked to, I'm tired of thinking of everyone, _everyone_ but myself, I'm frakking tired!"

William Adama pulled himself upright in the bed. He stared back at the President of the Twelve Colonies. She didn't _look_ tired. She looked defiant, she was defying _him,_ again, she was defying her cancer, she was defying anything that tried to break her but even stone is worn away by time and water and wind… and the strongest tree will break if it doesn't learn to bend.

"Then sit down," he said.

"I am sitting down," she muttered. And was that a wayward child he heard?

"Then lie down," he said.

"I can't," she said and her voice caught on unshed tears. "Who will stand up if I do?"

"I will," Adama said.

Laura shook her head. "You can't…"

"Hold you up?" he finished. "Why not?"

"Because…" She stopped, at a loss.

"Good reason," he said drily.

"Will…" she began and there was a plea in her voice and he heard it and grabbed her by her shoulders, pulled her to him and kissed her mouth. Slowly. Deeply. Sucking the breath out of her lungs and breathing it back in. She moaned and broke the kiss, taking her breath back. "Oh… don't change the subject..."

"This _is_ the subject." He swung his legs around until he sat on the edge of the bed. "Come here," he said, beckoning. She knee-walked across the mattress to him and he took her by her waist and pulled her astride him. She looked down at what he had for her, then up into his eyes.

"I love you," he said, staring, falling into the depths of her eyes, into her soul. "You know this. And you do not know this because I've told you."

"Yes," she whispered. _Yes._ She reached between them and guided him into her. He pulled her closer, moving until he was deep inside her. The pleasure was thick, heavy, long, it filled her, made her cry out.

"Laura," he gasped. He lost his train of thought as she began to ride him, her insides soft, velvety, slick, clasping. He cried out, "Gods! I won't let you die… no way in hell!"

And she remembered the incident of the downed pilot, and his intensity, and his willingness to sacrifice the many for the needs of the one. She knew that when they said there was no cure, no hope, it was time to look elsewhere for help. And if Chamalla couldn't do it, perhaps love would.

"An act of will?" she whispered and he pulled her close, close enough to feel her heart pound, close enough to feel her come.

He stared into her eyes. "An act of will," he said.

And then there was no more coherent speech, only the sound of a man and a woman making love, and the noise of release at the loving's conclusion.

And in the dimly lighted cabin, no one could see the energy that made their spines glow…

End


End file.
